twitched nervously. His cropped black hair was rumpled; his blouse, from which hung a croix de guerre, unbuttoned; and his unputteed shanks culminated in bed-slippers. In physique he reminded me a little of Ichabod Crane. His neck was exactly like a hen’s: I felt sure that when he drank he must tilt his head back as hens do in order that the liquid may run down their throats. But his method of keeping himself upright, together with certain spasmodic contractions of his fingers and the nervous “uh-ah, uh-ah” which punctuated his insecure phrases like uncertain commas, combined to offer the suggestion of a rooster; a rather moth-eaten rooster, which took itself tremendously seriously and was showing off to an imaginary group of admiring hens situated somewhere in the background of his consciousness. 

 “Vous êtes, uh-ah, l’Am-é-ri-cain?” 

 “Je suis Américain,” I admitted. 

 “Eh-bi-en uh-ah uh-ah—We were expecting you.” He surveyed me with great interest. 

 Behind this seedy and restless personage I noted his absolute likeness, adorning one of the walls. The rooster was faithfully depicted à la Rembrandt at half-length in the stirring guise of a fencer, foil in hand, and wearing enormous gloves. The execution of this masterpiece left something to be desired; but the whole betokened a certain spirit and verve, on the part of the sitter, which I found difficulty in attributing to the being before me. 

 “Vous êtes uh-ah KEW-MANGZ?” 

 “What?” I said, completely baffled by this extraordinary dissyllable. 

 “Comprenez vous fran-çais?” 

 “Un peu.” 

 “Bon. Alors, vous vous ap-pel-lez KEW MANGZ, n’est-ce pas? Edouard KEW-MANGZ?” 

 “Oh,” I said, relieved, “yes.” It was really amazing, the way he writhed around the G. 

 “Comment ça se prononce en anglais?” 

 I told him. 

 He replied benevolently, somewhat troubled “uh-ah uh-ah uh-ah—why are you here, KEW-MANGZ?” 

 Prev. P 43/216 next